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heating, McLean had almost convinced himself that he’d been mistaken. It couldn’t possibly have been Anderson; he’d watched the man’s coffin being lowered into the ground less than twenty-four hours ago. And there was no way that Peterhead jail could have made a mistake about the identity of one of their more notorious inmates.
    ‘You all right, Tony? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
    McLean started at the voice, realising he’d been staring into space. Hovering in the open doorway, Chief Superintendent Jayne McIntyre looked like she’d only just stepped out of the shower; face scrubbed pink, hair still wet, uniform as yet unrumpled by a long day in the office.
    ‘Didn’t get much sleep, ma’am. We found a body last night. There’s some nasty similarities to Anderson’s MO.’
    ‘Aye, I heard from Grumpy Bob. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ McIntyre looked around the room for a spare seat, then propped herself on the edge of the desk.
    McLean’s heart dropped. ‘You’re giving the investigation to someone else.’
    ‘I thought about it. God only knows, you’ve enough on your plate right now with Anderson being killed.’
    ‘With respect, ma’am, I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’
    ‘Oh don’t be so pompous, Tony. We both know what he did to you, and he’s going to be all over the papers for the next few weeks at least. Jo Dalgliesh’ll have a new edition of her book out before the end of the month, you can count on that. You might think you’ve buried the past and moved on, but it’s going to come back with a vengeance now.’
    ‘So that’s it then. Who do I hand over to, Dagwood? You do want us to catch whoever did this, don’t you?’
    ‘What is it with you two? Charles is an experienced detective with a very good clear-up rate. And yes, he will be in overall charge of this investigation. But I know you well enough, Tony. You’ll just go sticking your nose in itanyway. Make a bloody nuisance of yourself. And we’re not exactly overburdened with detectives right now, so you’re going to be leading things on the ground.’ She smiled, but McLean knew she was only half joking. ‘Talking of short staff, I’ve put the word out around the other forces. See if anyone fancies a transfer to sunny Edinburgh. Do it that way and we can squeeze a couple of detective constables out of the budget. Maybe even a sergeant.’
    ‘We could certainly do with the help.’ McLean looked at the pile of case files strewn across his untidy desk; enough work to keep him busy for months. Just a pity the city kept on throwing up new crimes for him to solve.
    ‘I know you like to work with just a small team, Tony, but this is high profile. Like you said, nasty similarities to the Christmas Killer. We need to be seen to be doing everything we can.’ McIntyre stood up, smoothing imaginary creases from her suit. ‘We all know what Anderson did to you. Are you sure you want to rake over all that again?’
    McLean tried to read the superintendent’s expression. Was it pity, or worry? He wasn’t sure he wanted either.
    ‘This isn’t Anderson, ma’am. He’s dead. I watched them bury him yesterday.’
    Gladhouse Reservoir wasn’t much better in the early morning light. Snow clung to the flanks of the Moorfoot Hills, a chill wind bringing a taste of deep winter. McLean looked at the unenthusiastic gaggle of uniforms that were all he’d been able to rustle up from Penicuik and Mortonhall. He couldn’t really blame them; it was very unlikely they’d find anything after last night’s weather.
    ‘OK ladies, you know the drill.’ Grumpy Bob directed officers away in various directions, then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets. ‘Bloody hell but it’s cold, sir.’
    McLean shivered in agreement. ‘Let’s get out of this wind, Bob.’ He nodded in the direction of the culvert. ‘I want to start where we found the body.’
    It was much the same as the evening